


The Conversation In The Car

by Yahtzee



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Booth and Bones spend the moments between the first kiss and their first time. </p>
<p>(Written as a Yuletide NYR story back in 2008, and thus totally out of track with current canon.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Conversation In The Car

Booth fumbles for the keys, hands as shaky as a schoolboy’s. It’s ridiculous, but not so ridiculous, because Bones is in the seat next to him, her breaths coming fast, and they’re going to her place to make love. 

“Can you drive?” She snaps her seat belt into place as coolly as though they were headed to a crime scene. Strands of her hair have fallen from her updo (fallen because he touched her, because he kissed her, he’s finally kissed her.) “If you’re unable, I could drive.” 

“I only had one glass of champagne, and that was, what, two hours ago?” 

“I wasn’t suggesting that you were intoxicated. I meant, the adrenalin. Arousal floods the body with all kinds of chemicals that can lead to lack of fine motor control.” 

“I can drive.” Booth goes for the lights, but misses, and the windshield wipers begin scraping across dry glass. “Dammit.” 

A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah, I’m sure. Are you telling me I’m the only one aroused here?” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

Their eyes meet, and then she glances down, like she’s bashful, although bashful is not one of Bones’ modes. Booth feels the dip in his gut, in his brain, the kind of sensory buck-and-pitch he associates with the last seconds before orgasm, not just from the impact of a glance. 

How the hell is he going to drive home?

That’s the problem with hooking up at a big fancy party, in Booth’s opinion: the car ride in-between. Sure, at a big fancy party, you have an excuse to spend lots of time with the woman you’ve sort of been falling for in slow motion over the past few years. And she looks completely amazing in her gown, and you’re feeling kind of all right in your tux yourself. And big swanky galas like that are easy to slip away from after the first couple hours, and the biggest donor to the Jeffersonian has gardens that are perfect for a long talk about whether the relationship is changing, and whether that’s a good thing. And those gardens have hedges tall enough to hide behind when you both decide it _is_ a good thing and start making out like crazy. All of that is great. More than great. But then there’s this part, the part where the two of them have finally decided to be together, and he can’t think about anything but getting that dress off her – but first he has to figure out which streets will get them to her place fastest, and where the speed traps might be. 

(His place is out of the question. It’s about an hour from here. No way he can last an hour.) 

They merge into traffic, and somewhat to Booth’s surprise, he’s in control of the vehicle. Neither of them speaks for a few seconds, which makes him itchy. “Too bad we can’t just take a transporter home, huh? We could ‘beam up.’ Be there like that.” 

“What do you mean?”

“A transporter? Star Trek? Come on, you’re a squint. You have to know Star Trek. I think it’s a law.” 

“Of course I know Star Trek. But why are you so nervous?” Her hand finds his thigh, with the whisper of skin against fabric, and his whole body responds. He feels her touch in his gut, his nerves, his throat. “I’m not going to change my mind.” 

Bones says it so simply, so surely, that he knows she’s not only talking about tonight. He covers her hand with one of his; they’re in a stretch where he only needs one on the wheel. “I’m not nervous. It’s just – we have to wait, and God, Bones, we’ve waited long enough already.” 

“You’re uneasy with silence,” she says fondly. “We could talk. About – about our expectations.” 

“With the relationship.” Are they dating now? Do you get to use the word “dating” after you turn 35? Are they going to tell the others right away? In Booth’s opinion, they might as well, because Angela will sniff it out approximately 3.2 seconds after they walk into the Jeffersonian Monday morning. “Yeah, that might be a good idea.” 

“I meant tonight. Sexually.” 

“.. expectations?” 

“For our lovemaking.”

“What, you want to – choreograph this?” 

“I don’t want to remove the spontaneity,” she says, which sounds like a contradiction to Booth, but apparently isn’t. “But we can discuss what we’d like. What we’re anticipating.”

The idea of Bones talking dirty to him in the car has appeal – a lot of it – so much so that Booth is even more worried about staying on the road. “Sometimes surprises can be nice.” 

“But sexual surprises can also be unwelcome. For instance, you’ve indicated that you wouldn’t be interested in exploring certain kinks. Your past reactions to some of the fetishists we’ve encountered suggest that your sexual preferences are fairly vanilla.” 

“Vanilla is good. Vanilla? Awesome.” 

“You don’t have to be defensive! I like vanilla.” 

Booth remembers having that dream about pony play, the one with the whips and all the leather, and somehow his temperature goes even higher. His dress shirt sticks to his skin. He can smell her perfume, and a whiff of fresh-mown grass like the lawn where they first touched earlier tonight. Somehow that’s going to smell sexy to Booth for the rest of his life.

Bones continues, “For example, in my opinion, the missionary position is currently severely underrated.” 

The visual that floods Booth’s mind nearly blinds him to the street. How can she be so cool about this? It’s both bewildering and weirdly hot. Trying to match her aplomb, Booth says, “You’re asking – you want me to be on top.” 

“We don’t have to remain in one position throughout. I just mean, the missionary position has considerable appeal. Body to body contact – the ability to kiss – a man’s weight, though of course that only applies to me – I find all of that very sensual.”

It’s not just a visual now. This is full-fledged sensory overload. Booth hopes he has enough self-control to refrain from actually panting. Then he catches the glint in Bones’ pale eyes. “You’re doing this to me on purpose.” 

“Maybe.” She can’t resist the smile. His Bones isn’t as guileless as she sometimes lets on. Innocence and wickedness: he loves it all. 

They come to a stoplight just as it turns red, and Booth jerks the stick into park and takes her face in his hands. Their kisses are messy, champagne-flavored. His fingers brush against the elaborate necklace she wears, down her bare chest to the edge of her silk dress, just above the small curves of her breast. Maybe one inch of his thumb slides between the silk and her skin; her breath quickens against his mouth, and Booth smiles a little. 

Then the jerk behind them honks. Like Booth’s supposed to notice the light turning green in the middle of that. 

“Okay,” Booth says as they spin forward again. “Any shortcuts you want to suggest?” 

“This is the best way.” Bones sounds flustered, which both is deeply satisfying and helpful in making him feel less ridiculous. “What do you want to know about me?” 

“What you look like out of that dress.” 

He means it as flirtation, but Bones -- being Bones – takes it literally. “Well, I don’t wax.” 

“…. You realize I would’ve found that out for myself in about fifteen minutes.” 

“You asked! Besides, o many women do these days that you might have different expectations, but sexually, waxing is a mistake.” 

“Huh?” His fantasies of her, which he has always attempted to keep vague enough to be gentlemanly, are becoming more explicit by the second, and Booth grips the wheel with both hands to be sure of his focus. 

“Pubic hair retains scent. Our body’s musks are the most potent natural aphrodisiac. Sex without scent is empty.” Booth starts to laugh. She protests, “I’m serious!” 

“I know. It’s just – only you could talk about this right now. And make it sexy.” 

“I wasn’t trying to be arousing.” They stop at another damned red light, and she smiles. “I’d do that more like -- this.” 

Then she’s the one learning toward him, kissing him, pulling at his necktie as though she wants to get him naked right there. Her other hand caresses his thigh, her fingers brushing against him so that she can feel how hard he already is for her. Booth’s groan is muffled by their kiss. He wonders how crude it would be to just pull the car over this second. They can do this in the back seat; hell, they can do it on the hood. What it lacked in romance it might make up for in spontaneity. And, you know, in being _now right now._

More honking. Booth’s annoyance with the guy behind him fades as he realizes every second he waits is another second between him and Bones’ bed. “Thanks, buddy,” he mutters, as he slams his foot onto the gas. 

Bones leans back in her seat, her chest rising and falling swiftly. Her expression is the same dazed smile Booth suspects he’s wearing himself. “It’s exhilarating. This – collision, between the known and unknown.”

Booth takes one of her hands in his and lifts it so that he can kiss her knuckles. Her pulse is so hard and fast that he can feel it in her palm. She’s both reassuringly familiar and intoxicatingly new. “I get it.” 

When she tugs her hand away, he wonders for a moment if he said something wrong. But she reaches for her necklace, unfastens it and drops it into her shiny little purse. The stones shimmer soft green in the dashboard lights. Her dangly earrings follow, and after that the silver clip she’d been using to hold up her hair. One auburn lock tumbles to her bare shoulder, as lush as velvet. With a rush, Booth realizes that she’s removing everything small and fiddly, everything that might slow them up once they get inside her apartment. She’s as anxious for this as he is. 

What Bones wants, she goes after, no brakes, no hesitation. And she wants him, which is both the greatest and most humbling thing that’s happened to Booth in a very long time. 

In the garden, at the party, when their kisses had reached their most desperate pitch, Booth had whispered, “Maybe we should slow down.” He didn’t say that because he wanted to slow down – that was about the last thing he wanted – but it was the kind of thing guys said at moments like that, to keep from going completely Neanderthal and having sex in public (generally a bad idea, particularly when your bosses and the Jeffersonian’s biggest donors were within ten meters.) 

The kind of thing most girls said at that point was _Oh, yes, we should, my hair, my dress_ , some crap like that. But Bones never says what “most girls say.” She invited him to her place instead. Booth is pretty sure that sums up everything that he adores about her, and that it would even if he wasn’t about to have what he suspects will be the best sex of his life. 

A green sign overhead proclaims that they’ve reached her exit. Booth loves that sign. 

“Almost there, Bones. Or would this be a good time for me to start calling you Temperance?”

“You call me Temperance sometimes. I’ve noticed that you do that mostly when we’re feeling particularly close. I like it when you do that.” 

“Then yeah, I think this is about time to start calling you Temperance.” They’re about to be as close as two people can possibly be. Booth wants her so badly he can taste it. 

“But I like it when you call me Bones, too. Nobody else does. It’s our thing.” 

“So we’re good either way.” 

“Yeah.” She seems to be happy that there’s no right or wrong, that the weird rules and complications that trip her up so often don’t apply here. It feels good to be trusted. 

One last stoplight. This time, when she bends in for the kiss, Booth doesn’t quite let their lips touch. Instead he nuzzles her chin, her cheeks. Her eyelashes flutter against his skin. The tip of his tongue brushes against the corner of her mouth, so she parts her lips in anticipation. Booth gently nips at her bottom lip, tugging just slightly. Her eager little gasp is enough to get Booth wondering what she’ll sound like the first time he kisses her breasts, or goes down on her, or pushes inside her –

Thank God for green lights. 

As the car accelerates, Booth settles back into his seat, determined to pay attention – most accidents happen within 500 yards of the house, etc. Bones continues stroking his hair, the side of his face; the skin of her hands is so soft. Maybe that’s what comes of wearing gloves most days. 

Then she catches his earlobe between her fingers and massages him deeply, right in THAT PLACE, the one that makes his spine arch and turns his blood pressure into a rollercoaster ride. Did Cam tell her about that? Do they talk about those kinds of things? Or has she figured it out on her own? Either way, Booth is really, really good with it. 

They pull into the parking lot of her apartment building, into her designated spot. Tomorrow morning, he’ll have to drive her back to her car while he’s wearing a very crumpled tuxedo at 9 a.m. The Walk of Shame never sounded so good. 

As soon as he cuts the motor, Bones kisses him again. It’s slower now, hotter, more intent. The only sound in the car is their ragged breathing and the wet slip of tongues. They’re savoring the last seconds of waiting, because no matter how good the sex is – tonight and all the other nights Booth wants to follow – the anticipation is sweet. 

Their mouths part, and Booth smiles. Bones whispers, “We’re home.”


End file.
